


The Gift of One's Self

by Jemisard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coercion, Dubious Consent, M/M, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to The Great Game. Moriarty plays another game with Sherlock and John.</p><p>May contain triggers for violence and mild sexual activity of dubious consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of One's Self

They had been the fatal words for the stand off.

“Sherlock, run!”

Sherlock had done no such thing, holding the sig level at Jim’s head as John kept hold of him, arm around this throat.

Jim had caught the significance of it. John was willing to die to stop Jim and let Sherlock escape in one movement. The sheer delight in his face was obscene, even as John was roughly grasping him, using him both as human shield against the sniper and insurance against the bomb strapped to his own body.

Sweet, he had called it. Loyal pet. Sherlock resented the words, because John wasn’t a pet, he was a brilliant, devoted man who was willing to be self sacrificing.

And that was very bad. Because with snipers trained on both of them, Jim was now aware what John would do to protect Sherlock. And heaven help him, Sherlock wasn’t sure just how far he’d go himself to protect his companion.

Standing between them, Jim brushed off his suit, looking mildly disgusted that John had dared to manhandle him. “Westwood.”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted briefly to John, catching the pain in his gaze. John stayed back from Moriarty, watching Sherlock.

“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?” Jim’s rolling lilt added a menace to the words that Sherlock didn’t enjoy. “To you?”

He shifted on his feet, keeping the gun steady. “Oh, let me guess,” he drawled. “I get killed.”

But really... he was only hoping that maybe Jim would buy it. That he wouldn’t pick the slightly more hidden path.

“Kill you?” Jim looked mildly disgusted. “Um... no, don’t be _obvious_ , I’m going to kill you anyway, some day.”

Sherlock wondered if that was how he sounded to others, when they were being horribly obvious and annoying him.

“I don’t want to rush it though,” Jim murmured fondly. “I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no.” And the friendly veneer fell, just like his own mask of humanity, Jim’s face cold and expression distant. “If you don’t stop prying...” And he paused, almost open mouthed panting as he looked up and down Sherlock’s body. “I’ll burn you.”

Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waiver from Jim’s as he kept speaking. “I’ll burn the _heart_ right out of you,” he finished, the hatred used to spit the word heart melting into something almost like pity.

Sherlock didn’t let himself show a thing. He held Jim’s gaze, unflinching. “I have been reliably informed I don’t have one,” he said levelly.

“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Jim purred, shaking his head.

Sherlock made the second mistake that night.

The pain briefly showed, in his gaze, in the way he felt himself blink to stop himself from the automatic reaction of looking to John, in the fact his cold mask slipped for a second, not showing any emotions, but slipping nonetheless.

Jim took it in, smiled slightly, then seemed to shrug off the inhumanity, all friendly and cheerful again. “Well. I better be off.” He looked at Sherlock, back at John and back to Sherlock again. “So nice to have had a _proper_ chat.” He licked his lips and Sherlock dearly wanted to put a bullet between his eyes.

He shifted, firming his grip. “What if I was to shoot you now? Right now.”

Jim barely paused. He knew as well as Sherlock did, Sherlock wasn’t going to shoot him. “Then you could cherish the look of shock on my face,” he said in those same round, lilting tones. He pulled his face into what was meant to be a mockery of shock, grinning seconds later. “Because I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really, I would.” He frowned slightly, emotions flickering. “And just a teensy bit...”

 _Disappointed._

“Disappointed.”

Being able to predict Jim Moriarty’s words was not a comfort right then.

The silence stretched between them, Jim smiling slightly, Sherlock refusing to lower the gun, even though they both knew at this stage that really, it was meaningless to their interaction.

“And of course... you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for long.”

Two snipers. And a bomb with a remote detonation, still strapped onto his best friend, who was pale and doing everything in his power to stay calm and focused. Sherlock was proud of him for refusing to give in to his base fear.

Jim shifted, starting to turn away. “Ciao.” He turned and looked back, and this time the barely concealed psychopathic rage was in his gaze and bleeding into his voice. “Sherlock Holmes.”

He started leaving, gaze lingering back on Sherlock. Sherlock moved slowly, pacing to keep Moriarty in line of sight but get closer to John. “Catch, you, later,” he carefully said, watching the door open and Moriarty pause in the doorway, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“No, you won’t!” His voice was high and light and cheeky once more and then, finally, the door shut between them.

Sherlock stayed exactly where he was, waiting for Moriarty to burst back in. Next to him, in his peripherary, John was staying exactly where he was, tense and upright still. Somehow.

Finally, he turned his head slightly–gun still pointed to the door–looking to the bomb vest which clearly had no boobytrapping over the buckles holding it shut and finally up to John’s eyes.

John was terrified and near collapse and if his pupils contracted much further they wouldn’t be visible.

Sherlock dropped to one knee, dropping the gun aside and scrambling for the buckles holding the vest shut as John staggered to the side, letting himself relax and the emotions of the moment hit him. His breaths were ragged and his arms limp, making no attempt to help free himself.

“All right,” Sherlock asked, snapping the words.

John just panted, trying to stay upright.

The buckles undid. “Are you all right?!” he tried louder, trying to get John to respond.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I’m fine.” His expression was numb and his voice flat and unpanicked as Sherlock desperately tried to pull the coat and vest off before Jim changed his mind and detonated it. “Sherlock,” John mumbled again, almost tripping over his feet as the clothing finally came off and Sherlock took a few steps, skidding it down the tiles and away from them. “Sherlock!”

He looked up and their gazes met. John was starting to hyperventilate, going into deep shock no doubt and Sherlock briefly wished he had a blanket to give him. Blankets helped with shock.

But he was unharmed.

And would stay that way if he could catch sight of Moriarty and blow his head off.

He heard John stagger and curse softly as he himself dove to grab the gun-

The door opened again, freezing Sherlock in place.

Moriarty grinned. “I am so changeable!” He walked in and Sherlock looked to the gun and saw the dilemma.

A red laser dot focused on the gun. Another traced up his arm and presumably stopped around his temple.

“Sherlock.”

He looked over to John, who was still crouched awkwardly against one of the change stalls. A red dot played over his chest, another sat on his brow and a third on his gut.

Dammit.

He lifted his hand away from the gun and stood slowly, taking a step back for each one Jim took in until he was alongside John again.

“It’s a weakness of mine,” Jim grinned. “Of course, it’s my only one, unlike you two. You start ‘caring’ and suddenly you’ve got all sorts of weaknesses.” He put his hands in his pockets. “How much do you care about your pet, Sherlock? Your faithful little puppy?”

“Stop it,” he said, making himself not move between Jim and John. He wouldn’t give Moriarty anything more to gloat over.

“Oh, lighten up, Sherlock. You were willing to let me get away to make sure he was safe, so I think it’s fairly safe to say his loyalty’s paid back in whatever way men like you and I can manage.”

“He’s not like you,” John protested.

“He’s just like me,” Moriarty snapped. “More than he’ll ever be like you, with your boring little mind and horribly _obvious_ life.”

“John, be quiet,” Sherlock said softly. While Moriarty focused on him, they were fairly safe. Moriarty wasn’t going to kill them out of hand or he would’ve done it already. He was playing with Sherlock but if he felt John was more hindrance than fun, he _would_ shoot him and it would be a slow, painful death.

Or worse, an instantaneous one.

“Yes, John, do listen to Sherlock. He’s got your best interests at _heart_.” Jim grinned. “Did you ever wish you had a heart, Sherlock? Or did you just come to the horrible realisation one day that it was there and that you’d started caring without meaning to? Traditionally, the Tin man is meant to realise he has a heart after loving his friends.”

Sherlock didn’t understand the reference. It must have been one he knew once, the word was familiar but he couldn’t find any data in the file in his head.

“If he’s the Tin man, then you must be the Wicked Witch of the West,” John said with contempt.

“But you’re not Dorothy, John, so don’t go having any delusions that you’re going to be the one stopping me,” Jim said coldly.

Sherlock hated feeling out of his depth, but suddenly the information was there. Wizard of Oz, classic children’s literature, small child in world of magic and wonder seeks to return home to her family and a mundane existence. A kidnapping case he’d been involved with had referenced the book in the ransom note. “You hardly came back to discuss children’s classics.”

“Maybe I did,” Jim pouted. Then he laughed. “All right, so I didn’t, but it was a nice change of pace.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen for a moment.

Sherlock risked a look to John, who just nodded slightly. He wasn’t going to go to pieces, not while the threat was here.

“You know, I do like the touch where you frantically claw off his clothes before it even passes your mind to double check on me. Should I be hurt, Sherlock, out of sight, out of mind when you have a chance to be stripping John Watson?”

There was a camera in here. Possibly with the snipers. Sherlock mentally kicked himself.

“I can’t bring my mind down to the level where someone as plain as him takes precedence over your nemesis,” Jim said, walking between them and trailing his hand over John’s shoulder, across his back, giggling when John tried to shrug his touch off. He stepped back, adjusting his own jacket and lifting the ear piece and microphone back on.

John turned, stepping back and into Sherlock, not hiding his base reaction to put himself in between the two geniuses.

Jim giggled again. “Lets play a game, boys. Where we find out how brave and loyal our little soldier is.”

“I thought you wanted to play with me,” Sherlock said coldly.

“So I did! John, take off your earpiece and put it on Sherlock.”

John looked at Sherlock, who just nodded slightly. There were at least five snipers on them, there was no point trying anything at this moment.

With remarkably steady hands, John took off his ear piece and unclipped it, offering it out to Sherlock.

“John, John, John, you’ve already forgotten the rules. Still, we have to forgive you, you have a small mind.” He tutted. “Put the earpiece on Sherlock. Sherlock, kneel down for John. If you behave, nothing happens. If you don’t, I start putting random holes in the other one. So just think, your _best friend’s_ safety relies on you behaving well. And I’m sure John can enlighten you to how excruciatingly painful a gunshot can be without being even remotely fatal.”

Jaw tight, Sherlock knelt down on one knee. John moved closer, clipping the pack to his collar and then carefully brushing his hair aside to affix the earpiece in place, snug and firm.

“Step back.”

It was like stereo feedback, hearing Moriarty in his ear and standing back from them at once.

John stepped back one pace, not looking back at Jim.

“Do stand up, Sherlock. If I bring you to your knees, it won’t be to let John Watson have his hands on you.”

Sherlock stood up slowly, looking past John to Moriarty, who backed up a few more steps away from them, his voice dropping to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“We’re going to play Jim says. If you do what Jim says, nothing happens. If you don’t do what Jim says, then Jim starts putting holes in Doctor Watson.”

With his teeth clenched, Sherlock nodded the once to show that he understood.

“And if you try anything obvious, the snipers will shoot you through both arms, both legs, do the same to Doctor Watson and then put a very large hold in his groin. It’s a horrible way to die, Sherlock, bleeding out from a large caliber bullet to the genitals.”

Sherlock didn’t let anything show on his face; he didn’t want to agitate John any further.

“Show me you understand, Sherlock.”

He nodded again.

“I didn’t say Jim says,” Moriarty said coldly.

Sherlock heard someone scream a denial as the shot rang out and John staggered to his knees, clutching his right arm where the bullet had grazed him. Jim loudly sighed, then dropped his voice back down.

“Next time, they won’t be so generous, Sherlock. Show me you understand.”

He stayed perfectly still.

“Perfect.” Jim stepped back a bit. “Jim says help John to his feet.”

Sherlock stepped forwards, helping John to his feet carefully, holding him steady. He dreaded to think that John saw on his face, because he gave a weak smile to Sherlock that was probably meant to be encouraging.

“He is a brave little soldier, Sherlock. Jim says tell him to stay upright and face the stalls.”

“Stay upright and face the stalls,” Sherlock carefully said, voice bland and neutral.

John did it without any protest.

“Very good. Jim says tell him he’s a good boy and pat his head.”

Really? Moriarty was going to be this pedestrian. Predictable? _Boring_? “Good boy,” he said with the same dull tone, patting John’s head the once.

John looked at Moriarty.

“Jim says remind him of the rules.”

“Remember the rules, John,” Sherlock said softly. John did what Moriarty wanted, but otherwise was silent and still. And Sherlock played Jim says, determined not to slip again.

With a deep breath, John looked back to Sherlock, watching him with anger in his gaze.

“Jim says take off John’s awful cardigan.”

He quelled the urge to protest before he got John shot again and reached up, to tug the cardigan down and off, taking the chance to glimpse at the gunshot. It was a graze, luckily nothing more serious. John swallowed, meeting his gaze with a hint of worry behind it now.

“You know, Sherlock, I just don’t get it. Look at him. I mean... _look_. He’s so mundane. His clothes are positively cheap, his mind is dull and slow, he’s so... stocky. Thick. Everything about John Watson is very... thick.”

Jim hadn’t said, so Sherlock didn’t respond, didn’t let his gaze drop from John’s. John wasn’t as dumb an everyone else. He was boring sometimes, but he wasn’t thick and he wasn’t mundane. Mundane people didn’t get shot without protest. Mundane people didn’t try to save him at the cost of their own life.

“So, I’m thinking you should show me what parts of John mean the most to you. Jim says you have five spots you can declare safe from shooting if you fail, and I’ll even give you a minute to think on them. Here’s the catch though, Sherlock. Jim says you have to show me how much you love those spots by kissing them.”

His body actually jolted with the urge to leap and kill, to smash Jim Moriarty’s face into the tiles until there was nothing left of it but blood and pulp. John picked up something was wrong, his brows knitting into worry and Sherlock had to close his eyes, to focus on thinking.

He had to do his best to eliminate the instant kills shots. Anything else, however painful, John would recover from with medical attention. He could think of three obvious instant kills shots. He would try to save his hand, not make him face the world unable to hold a gun and exact revenge against this man. And- he winced, knowing it was what Jim wanted to see, to force him to do to protect John from a threat he never heard uttered against him.

“Jim says time is up, time to act.”

He opened his eyes and tried not to see as he moved. He pressed his first kiss to John’s temple softly. Head shot. The next he placed softly on his left hand, bending down to it so John didn’t have to lift it from his wound. He could feel John’s gaze on him, sharp and attentive.

The third went chastely over his breast bone, over his heart and he was aware of the smell of fear and sweat on John’s body.

Four meant touching John’s head to make him tilt to the side so Sherlock could press his lips to this throat. A throat shot, as good as untreatable if made right.

And five...

He closed his eyes, dropping to one knee and inhaling sharply before leaning in to kiss lightly over John crotch, standing up just as swiftly and looking at the wall over John’s head.

John was virtually vibrating with pent up anger and humiliation and indignation.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually do it, Sherlock, but you really do have a heart for your sweet pet, don’t you?” His tone went cold. “How pathetic, someone like you brought down by something as meaningless as John Watson.”

He didn’t look, didn’t react.

“Jim says to come over here to me.”

He walked over, looking down at Moriarty.

Moriarty gave him an ear piece. “Jim says put this on John.”

He snatched the ear piece and strode back, quickly and efficiently putting it on John.

“Jim says behave well.”

He didn’t hear anything, but clearly John did, because his jaw went tight and he left go of his arm, reaching up and starting to undo Sherlock’s shirt with professional detachment.

He kept watching over John head, but then the whisper came back. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Sherlock? Feeling John Watson pawing your body with his grubby hands?”

He felt John undo the clip on his jacket collar and put it on his skin, the crocodile clip biting his flesh. John pulled off his coat and then threw it in the swimming pool before stepping behind him, pulling down his shirt and twisting it, trapping Sherlock’s hands somewhat ineffectively in his sleeves.

He was forced to face Moriarty, arms pinned behind him, bare chested and neck throbbing with the bite of the clip on it.

“Very nice,” Jim murmured in his ear. “Are you enjoying it, Sherlock, John holding your arms behind you, his body pressed closed?”

He didn’t respond.

There was silence and then John’s hand reached around his body, hot and sticky with his own blood as he touched Sherlock’s chest, around his nipples and down his stomach to his belt.

He still didn’t respond.

“Jim says turn around and slap John. Hard.”

He closed his eyes, freeing himself nearly effortlessly and spinning around, pretending it was Mycroft standing with him. He slapped John hard across the face, eyes still closed.

“Now, that wasn’t very friendly, Sherlock. Help him up and kiss it better.”

Everything in him wanted to help John, but he had caught the vital, lacking phrase.

“You know, this game isn’t as fun when you’re both so careful not to do anything wrong,” Jim said out loud. “You can take your headpieces off.”

John complied. Sherlock didn’t move again.

“We’re not done, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered to him. “Jim says pick up John’s gun and shoot him.”

Sherlock hesitated. He didn’t want to. God, how he didn’t want to. But if he didn’t, the snipers would, and he knew exactly how it would happen.

He dashed for the gun, grabbing it and spinning around. He had already catalogued and decided, shifting his aim for his shoulder before changing it.

Jim said shoot him. Jim didn’t say it had to be a direct strike.

He fired, the shot grazing lower on John’s right arm and sending him back a step, staggering to his knees and going white, fresh blood blossoming over his shirt.

“Clever, Sherlock,” Jim murmured. “But I suppose you did play within the rules. I’m going to give you a chance. Show me how much John Watson means to you. The more convinced I am of his importance, the less likely I am to kill him.”

And the more he knew to hold over them. His gaze dropped, but on the way he saw salvation.

Jim was enjoying the game too much. That was a weakness.

He walked over to John, kneeling down in front of him, lips barely mouthing an apology before he cupped his face with one hand and kissed him.

John’s lips were lax with shock, letting Sherlock deepen the kiss, tilting John’s head more and bearing down on him, tasting his mouth, the faintest hints of beer from dinner, blood from where he’d bitten himself. He pressed closer to taste more, substituting interest in what he could pick up for genuine passion in the moment.

His other hand slipped around John’s waist, still holding the gun. Tightening his arm to pull their bodies flush, he got purchase on the tiles, leaning John back even as John broke the kiss, looking horribly confused and shocked.

Sherlock fired the gun.

Not at Moriarty.

At the vest still on the ground behind him.

In the same moment he threw them forwards, taking a deep breath and protecting John’s head with his hand as they hit the water and sank.

The explosion still threw them through the water, clinging onto one another as rubble and flames erupted above them. John twisted them sharply, a piece of ceiling crashing down where they had been.

They surface together, gasping for breath. Whatever Moriarty was paying his men, it wasn’t enough for them to still be looking for the pair of them when the building had exploded.

Sherlock ripped the earpiece from his neck and ear, throwing them aside and pushing towards the edge as more of the roof cracked and crumbled. He kept a hand on John, dragging him along too, helping him out of the water.

They ran for outside, listening to the sirens wailing in the distance as they got clear and more of the building fell in on itself. Around the district, lights were going on, people coming out of houses cautiously.

“All right,” John said, coughing harshly on the pool water he had half inhaled.

“Fine.” Sherlock looked down at John, hand coming to rest on his back as the older man coughed again.

“Good distraction.”

“The kiss? Jim wanted to see me kiss you, he has a strong voyeuristic streak and would be stimulated by the sight of me displaying passion, even for someone he considers a lesser being. He told me the more convinced he was of your importance to me, the less likely he’d be to kill you. Clearly, he wished to see us engage in a sexual embrace, undoubtedly to make one or both of us uncomfortable with each other in the future.” He caught John as his legs gave out under him, guiding him to sit on the side walk.

“Shock. Feel cold.” John’s teeth were starting to chatter.

“Unsurprising. It has been a rather stressful night.”

“Sherlock... I need warmth.”

He realised what John meant and nodded, moving to sit behind him, wrapping his long limbs around the doctor and holding him tight and close for warmth. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

John was quiet in response, probably due to shock and slowly returning warmth.

“John? Thank you. For that thing... you know. You tried to do. For me.” For trying to let him escape. For being willing to die for him.

“You’re welcome,” John murmured softly. “You’re worth it.”

“So are you,” he whispered back, holding John tight and close. Every little thing Moriarty had forced them in to, it was worth it to keep John alive and mostly unharmed in his arms.

They stayed there together until the ambulances arrived.


End file.
